The Brothers of Glastonbury

Chapter Three

I could not immediately satisfy my curiosity by following Cicely and her aunt into the house, because the rouncy’s welfare had to come before mine. I knew enough of horsemanship to understand that this was one of the cardinal rules; and I also knew it to be the reason why, as long as I had youth and strength, I should always go about my business on two legs instead of four. Not only did I hear and see more travelling on foot, but neither was I forced to place an animal’s well-being before my own.

I was advised by a passing pot-boy from the George hostelry that there was a good livery stable in Northload Street, just off the market place, where Barnabas would be well looked after for a reasonable daily charge. I made my way there, and after satisfying myself that the stalls were clean and capacious and the straw fresh, I handed him over with a sigh of relief and returned to the Gildersleeves’ home as fast as I could.

Cicely must have been watching out for me. As I approached, she appeared at the street door to greet and guide me upstairs to the living quarters, where, in an airy chamber directly above the workshop at the back of the house, overlooking the kitchens and a small, walled garden, sat a tearful Dame Joan. A bottle of what I discovered to be primrose wine and four mazers had been placed on the table, together with a dish of cinnamon biscuits and another of medlars, squashy and brown and bursting from their skins. A glance through the open casement showed me the tree below, in the centre of some neatly laid out flower and herb beds, with a narrow bench surrounding its trunk. There was money enough for comfort here, I decided, stealing a furtive and hasty look around the room.

Cicely urged me to sit down at the table with them, and poured me some wine.

‘Aunt, this is the Duke of Clarence’s messenger I’ve been telling you about. His name is Roger.’ I noticed that she carefully avoided any reference to my true occupation.

Mistress Gildersleeve nodded, dabbing at her eyes, apparently too overcome with emotion to question my lack of livery as one of His Grace’s men.

‘What has happened?’ I asked, sipping my wine and looking across at my erstwhile charge.

But it was Mistress Gildersleeve who answered. A great shudder convulsed her thin frame. ‘Witchcraft!’ she uttered, barely above a whisper.

‘Aunt, please! Don’t say that! We know nothing for certain.’ Cicely got up from her stool and, stooping, put her arms around the older woman’s shoulders. ‘When Mark returns, or Rob or John, we might have better news. One of them may have discovered Peter’s whereabouts or what has happened to him. No one can just vanish into thin air.’

Dame Joan’s violet eyes widened in horror. ‘He can if the Devil takes him!’

It was Cicely’s turn to shiver, but she protested gamely, ‘And what would Old Scratch want with a good, upright citizen like Peter? A man who says his prayers and goes to Mass as regularly as anyone in the parish.’

Dame Joan pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. ‘All those books that he keeps in that chest at the back of the workshop — how do we know what’s in them? They might contain incantations, spells, black magic. I can’t read and neither can you. We wouldn’t be any the wiser even if we studied them.’

‘But Mark can read,’ Cicely said impatiently, releasing her aunt and returning to her place on the opposite side of the table. ‘He would know if there was anything blasphemous or … or wrong in them.’

‘Mark may be able to read, but he only does so for business purposes,’ Dame Joan reproved ‘He doesn’t waste his time filling up his head with nonsense.’

‘Mistress Gildersleeve,’ I interrupted, ‘I should be pleased to know exactly what has taken place, all the circumstances of your son’s disappearance…’

But, ‘One of the maids has left already,’ was the only response I got. ‘Maud has gone back to her father’s cottage in Bove Town. By now the whole of Glastonbury must be buzzing with the news.’

I looked appealingly at Cicely, who leant across and touched Dame Joan on the arm.

‘Aunt, will you permit me to tell Roger the facts?’

The afflicted lady gave a little moan. ‘Do what you like,’ she said tearfully.

‘Very well. Thank you.’ Cicely clasped her hands together on the table. ‘Perhaps Roger might be able to suggest a solution, you never know.’

She smiled at me, that tantalising, impish smile of hers, and it occurred to me that she was very calm for one confronted with the news that her betrothed had vanished. She also seemed suddenly more grown up. I made no remark, however, but poured myself another cup of wine and settled down to listen to her explanation.

* * *

As the interruptions and emendations of Dame Joan (in addition to my own questioning) made Cicely’s explanation longer and more confusing than necessary, I shall set down the facts in narrative form as they seemed to me after I had sorted and assembled them into some sort of order.

It was now Tuesday. On the previous Friday, Peter Gildersleeve had announced his intention of visiting the Pennards (already known to me through my earlier conversation with Cicely). There was nothing unusual in this as, like their father before them, the brothers bought some of their skins from Anthony Pennard and his two sons, Gilbert and Thomas. He had therefore set out not long after dinner, riding the five or so miles between Glastonbury and Wells on Dorabella, a chestnut mare which belonged to the family. (If a second horse or a carriage for Dame Joan were needed, they were hired from the Northload Street livery stables.)

In the event, however, Peter had made no attempt to see either Anthony or his sons. The three men were from home that afternoon, but Mistress Pennard and both her maids had been indoors all day, not wishing to venture forth in the stifling heat, and they all declared that no one had called at the house. But Peter Gildersleeve had been seen on Pennard land, a fact attested to by one of the shepherd-lads, Abel Fairchild. Not only had Abel set eyes on Peter Gildersleeve, but the terrified boy also swore that the visitor had magically vanished almost in his presence.

By an odd coincidence — or perhaps it was not a coincidence: was it not just as likely that God had taken over the reins and was directing my every move? — this event had occurred on the very same stretch of ground across which Cicely and I had travelled earlier that afternoon, within those two folds of the Mendip hills where she had pointed out the shepherd’s hut and the distant prospect of the Pennards’ house. Abel had been following his flock down to the lower slopes, and had noticed Peter Gildersleeve descending from the copse towards the hut. He had watched him pause and stare around once he had reached level ground. Peter had then glanced up, recognized Abel and raised his hand in greeting.

At this point, the undulation had hidden both him and the hut from Abel’s sight; but the boy was young and active, and it had been only a matter of seconds before he had ascended the opposite slope. In those few seconds, however, Peter Gildersleeve had completely vanished.

To begin with, Abel had thought nothing of it. He assumed that for some reason or other Peter had gone into the hut; so, being a conscientious lad and mindful of his master’s interests, he had opened the door and looked inside to discover what the intruder was up to. But there was no one there. Feeling a little uneasy, although not yet frightened, Abel had walked slowly around the outside of the building, first clockwise and then withershins, but there was still no sign of his quarry, and the rest of the lower hollow was just as empty. Unease had begun to give way to panic. He had called Peter’s name and once more searched the interior of the hut, but to no avail. The man he had seen alive and well only minutes earlier had disappeared without trace.

Abel was, by now, thoroughly scared. He’d scrambled up towards the trees and run as fast as his legs would carry him to the farmhouse. At first, Mistress Pennard had refused to listen, being too busy scolding him for leaving his flock unattended, but when at last she paid attention to his story, she had been sufficiently impressed by his general demeanour to send one of the maids back with him as far as the copse. There they had discovered Dorabella tethered to a tree and quietly cropping the grass. Of Peter Gildersleeve, however, there was still no sign.

The day wore on. Towards suppertime the three Pennard men had returned from Priddy, high on the Mendips, where they had been visiting Anthony’s younger brother, Henry, and had been told the sorry tale. Abel had been sent for and closely questioned, whereupon all three Pennards had visited the site of Peter’s disappearance to conduct their own search, but without success. Consequently, after supper, it had been decided that one of the brothers must ride to Glastonbury, leading Dorabella, and tell the Gildersleeves what had happened. It was reckoned that Dame Joan and Mark would, in any case, be growing worried at Peter’s delay in returning home. Foot-pads and thieves had been plaguing the whole area for some months past, and they would be feeling concerned for his safety, even though there were still a few hours until dusk.

Such had been the events of the last Friday, and the Gildersleeve household had been in turmoil ever since. Had it not been for his abandoning of Dorabella it might have been assumed, by Mark at least, that there was a reasonable explanation for Peter’s absence and that he had gone off about some secret business of his own. Peter, however, would never have left the horse for more than an hour or so; she was far too valuable to him. In addition (and as I already knew) he had been due to ride to Farleigh on the Monday to collect his betrothed and bring her back with him. Mark and the two apprentice lads, Rob Undershaft and John Longbones, had been out hunting for him every hour of daylight since.

‘But of course they won’t find him!’ Dame Joan now exclaimed, pressing her hands together until the knuckles showed white. ‘He’s been taken by the Devil! We shall all be outcasts!’

‘Aunt! Will you please stop saying that!’

There was a sudden, underlying note of hysteria in Cicely’s voice, and I noticed that she was no longer smiling. In the retelling, the eerie little story had begun to affect her, and she was beginning to share her aunt’s belief in witchcraft and magic. Perhaps it was not so surprising that these mysterious events should have happened there, in the Vale of Avalon, where myth and legend abound, and where the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere lie in their great black marble mausoleum before the high altar-of the abbey …

If, that is, they are the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere. (Am I the only person to have my doubts? Probably not, but it’s a brave man or woman who will voice them openly with so much of the abbey’s wealth depending on acceptance of the fact.) Everyone hereabouts knows the story, of course: how, almost three centuries ago, seven years after a disastrous fire which almost destroyed the abbey, Abbot Henry de Soilly ordered his monks to dig in a certain place, where they found two sets of bones and a hank of yellow hair buried in the trunk of a hollowed-out oak tree. Also in the coffin, by the happiest of chances, was a lead cross with an inscription to identify its burden. Pilgrims have flocked to Glastonbury ever since, including, ninety years on from that fortuitous discovery, King Edward the first and his beloved queen, Eleanor of Castile, who, in a magnificent ceremony still reverently talked about two hundred years later, transferred the bones, carrying them in their arms, from the first tomb in one of the abbey’s side-chapels to their present resting place.

And where Arthur and Guinevere are buried, might not the spirits of Merlin and the evil Morgan le Fay also haunt the surrounding countryside? Succeeding abbots have tried in vain to separate the real Arthur from his mythical persona — but who will prefer oatcake if he can have a doucette? It’s almost as if people enjoy being frightened.

I did, however, make an attempt to allay Cicely’s fears by suggesting that there must be a perfectly straightforward explanation for her betrothed’s disappearance.

‘Then what is it?’ she demanded. ‘Tell me! I’m more than willing to listen.’

But naturally, when confronted with this uncompromising request, I was unable to find an answer. ‘Let’s wait until your cousin Mark and his men return,’ I suggested. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say first. After all, they may have news.’

But when, half an hour later, just as darkness fell, the three returned home, they had nothing more to impart. There had been no further sighting of Peter since Friday afternoon, when he had last been seen by Abel Fairchild.

Mark Gildersleeve joined us above stairs, having first stabled Dorabella and sent his two apprentices to the kitchens in search of their belated supper. He had refused all his mother’s offers of food, being, he said, too tired to eat.

He was very like his uncle to look at, having the same curling red hair and sturdy, thickset body, although he was, I judged, a good half a head shorter than William Armstrong. His expression was also less truculent, but he could be just as surly when unsure of his ground.

‘Who in the devil’s name is this?’ he demanded, suddenly becoming aware of my presence.

So Cicely repeated her story, once again omitting the fact that I was not really one of the Duke of Clarence’s men. But Mark was more astute than Dame Joan.

‘Why doesn’t he wear livery then?’ he grunted suspiciously.

Cicely would have made up some story — I could see the sparkle in her eyes as she warmed to the deception — but I judged the time ripe to admit the truth.

‘I used to be a novice here at the abbey,’ I said, ‘but I renounced my vocation to become a chapman, a calling much more to my liking. I am however known to my lord of Clarence, having done several small services in the past for his brother, the Duke of Gloucester.’

‘He saved Duke Richard’s life,’ Cicely cut in, and smiled admiringly at me across the table.

I saw Mark shoot her a sidelong glance. He plainly felt it his duty to keep an eye on his volatile cousin. ‘If you’re a chapman, where’s your pack?’ he asked, his tone belligerent.

‘I left it at Farleigh Castle. I shall pick it up again when I return with the horse.’

‘What horse?’

Patiently, I explained about the rouncy and where he was stabled.

Mark Gildersleeve continued to stare dubiously at me. ‘You sound a very strange chapman to me. What were these services you rendered my lord of Gloucester?’

Reluctantly, and as briefly as possible, I sketched in my version of the events which had linked me, in the past, to Duke Richard, but my listener’s frown only deepened.

‘If what you tell me is true,’ he said when I had finished, ‘why are you not a rich man? Why are you still a pedlar? God’s teeth! Do you think I’m a greenhorn?’

Cicely was on her feet, spots of colour burning in her cheeks. ‘You may not be green, but you’re very ill-mannered!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘Roger is not a liar! Do you suppose that my father would have entrusted me to the care of a stranger if that man hadn’t been recommended to him by the Duke himself? And do you also then accuse my lord of Clarence of being a liar?’

I could see that her hot-headed defence of me was making Mark even more suspicious than he had been before, and I hastened to intervene.

‘Your cousin is justified,’ I told her soothingly, ‘in finding my story at odds with my present condition. The fact is, Master Gildersleeve — ’ and I smiled placatingly at him — ‘that I prefer to be my own master. I have never taken kindly to being at the beck and call of other people. Nor do I like being confined for any length of time between four walls, which was one reason among others that I quit the monastic life. As a pedlar, I do my own bidding and no one else’s. My existence may sometimes be hard, but in terms of freedom I am a wealthy man.’

Mark grunted, his hostility fading somewhat. He poured himself more wine. ‘I can understand that,’ he conceded grudgingly, but then he grew more expansive. ‘I’ve always known what it is to be my own master — or, at least,’ he amended, ‘to work for nobody except my father — and now for Peter, which is the same thing. Or very nearly the same…’ His voice tailed off as he remembered his brother and, with a great groan, he covered his face with his hands.

Dame Joan, affected by this sign of despair, began to cry quietly, the tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. Only Cicely seemed unable to express her grief — if, that is, she felt any. Instead, she asked, ‘Where do you mean to spend the night, Master Chapman?’ And I felt her kick her aunt’s leg under the table.

I said hurriedly, ‘I shall find somewhere, never fear. I’ve money in my pocket and can procure a place easily enough at one of the ale-houses in the town. If I recall rightly, there are a vast number of them, so I’m certain of getting a bed. They can’t all be occupied by pilgrims.’

Dame Joan shook her head. ‘You must stay here,’ she said, wiping away her tears with trembling fingers. ‘We have only one guest chamber, which must now belong to Cicely until … until…’ She could not bring herself to add ‘until she marries’, but continued bravely, ‘You may sleep in Peter’s bed in his and Mark’s room.’

I glanced quickly at Mark to see how he would respond to this invitation to share his bedchamber, but, to my surprise, he raised no objection. He seemed rather to be sunk in a reverie of his own, not even looking up when Cicely exclaimed, with a clap of her hands, ‘Good! That’s settled! You deserve our hospitality after squiring me all the way from Farleigh.’

I tried to quell her exuberance with as stern a glance as I could muster, but she ignored me, laying a hand on her cousin’s arm and giving it a little shake. ‘Mark! Why don’t we persuade Roger to remain with us for a day or two? On his own admission, he has solved other mysteries. Why shouldn’t he give us the benefit of his past experience and try to discover what has happened to Peter?’

‘Eh?’ Mark blinked at her, obviously not having listened to a word she’d said, and Cicely was obliged to repeat her question. When at last he understood, Mark looked at me doubtfully. ‘Would you be willing to delay your journey?’ he asked. ‘As I understand it, you were on your way home when you reached Farleigh. And what about this cob that has been lent to you from the Duke of Clarence’s stables?’

I hesitated. Here was my chance — the one chance God always gave me — to extricate myself from whatever it was that He had planned. But, as on all the previous occasions, I could not do it. God had bestowed on me the gift of solving puzzles as well as endowing me with an insatiable curiosity. ‘Nosiness’ my mother had called it, and she was probably right.

‘I can spare a few days,’ I said. ‘The weather is still very warm and the evenings light; my mother-in-law and child can do without me a little while longer. As for the rouncy, I doubt it’s one of the more valuable horses in His Grace of Clarence’s stables. Its absence won’t worry the Farleigh grooms as long as they hold my pack in exchange for it. Besides, the groom who was instructed to saddle it for me and Mistress Cicely will probably have moved on with the Duke, and those left behind may care nothing for the transaction, or even know of it.’

‘You’ll stop then?’

It was impossible to tell from Mark Gildersleeve’s tone whether he was pleased by my decision or not. But there was no mistaking the pleasure on Cicely’s smiling countenance, nor Dame Joan’s tearful gratitude, although I did not delude myself that either had any special belief in my abilities to unravel the problem of Peter’s disappearance. I could only hazard a guess at Cicely’s reason for wishing me to stay, and I resolved to keep a wary eye on that young woman. Dame Joan simply looked upon me as just another person to join in the hunt.

‘I’ll stop,’ I agreed, ‘for a day or two at least.’

Mark nodded. ‘Well, the lads and I will be up at first light tomorrow morning to continue the search. Rob and John will go the shorter distances on foot. I shall ride Dorabella to Wells and beyond, so you’d better join me on that rouncy.’

I shook my head. ‘I prefer to go my own way. Pardon me for saying so, Master Gildersleeve, but this aimless wandering about the countryside is achieving nothing. You have been looking for your brother for four days now, and have found no trace of him. It’s time to try other methods, to start asking questions, which you can, if you wish, leave to me. You and your apprentices would surely do better to pay attention to the business rather than Master Peter’s return. He won’t thank you to find it neglected, particularly as he is soon to be married.’

My advice was received with varying degrees of approval. Dame Joan stopped crying and roundly declared that it was the most sensible thing she had heard all day; Mark looked offended, but said that he would sleep on my offer; while Cicely appeared suddenly glum, presumably at the prospect of having Peter restored to her unharmed. It was all I could do to repress a smile.

But my mood sobered when I reflected on the unlikelihood of such an event ever taking place. I felt in my bones that if I did manage to find Peter Gildersleeve, he would no longer be alive.